


Waltz to a Burning Violin

by Grondfic



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, poetslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dream-meditation on <i>Take this Waltz</i>, Cohen's song-transliteration of Lorca's <i>Pequeño vals vienés</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Waltz to a Burning Violin

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is heavily dependent on the works of both Cohen and Lorca, and is therefore reference-rich. However, the last thing I want to do is take undeserved credit, so here goes:
> 
>  
> 
> The violins appear very frequently in Cohen's work. The burning one of the title is from _Waltz me to the End of Love_ , and the plywood one towards the end from _First we Take Manhattan_.
> 
>  **New York** : the reference is to Lorca's poetic collection _The Poet in New York_.
> 
> Everything that Lorca says is from _Take this Waltz_.
> 
> The weeping bouquet comes from Lorca's original, and from _Take this Waltz_.
> 
>  **Cadaqués** has meaning for Lorca, since it was there that he became very close with Dalí.
> 
> The short paragraph referencing Hungarian lanterns takes most of its imagery (including the fairly explicit image) from both poets, marginally more Cohen.
> 
> The voice crying out in Spanish is a paraphrase of the reported words of one of the executioners, and is quoted by Ian Gibson in his seminal work _The Assassination of Federico García Lorca_.
> 
>  **Alfacar** is near where Lorca was assassinated, and where his remains are presumed to lie.
> 
> The soft clocks are of course a reference to one of Dalí's paintings.
> 
>  _It was five by all the clocks_ is a line from Lorca's lament for his bullfighter friend, Ignacio Sanchez Mejias; bits of which have often been used to refer to the tragic end of Lorca himself.
> 
>  
> 
> **This is a work of fiction. Real life it is not.**

The salon is old now, and desecrated; its windows smashed by generations of passing armies. 

The thin needle of sound from the violin draws its threaded waltz into a mad game of hide and seek in corners where it winds around abandoned pianos and upended tables. Smashed spindles of chairs litter the floor.

Leonard, entering from the doorway of another dream entirely, recognises the wounded space immediately. This is the Vienna of That Waltz – heavily overlaid with subtle intimations of Granada, and the New York of The Poets.

On the far wall – miraculously intact amidst the ruin of glass – hangs a full-length portrait. Leonard picks his way across the dance-floor, skipping it featly around shipwrecked furniture and the murdered music of broken instruments.

At the picture’s foot, by the tarnished frame, someone has left a tribute-bouquet, still weeping fresh tears. 

Leonard’s dark eyes travel upwards from the neat polished shoes of The Subject, to the bench on which he sits, his craftsman’s hands clasped around one black-clad knee. A garish sweater in a contrasting dogtooth pattern covers the upper torso; and, beneath the oval chin a natty, incongruous bow-tie clasps the elegant neck. He gazes from beneath the heavily-scored brackets of his eyebrows, directly into Leonard’s eyes.

“ _Take this Waltz!_ ” he says, rising and stepping down into the room. 

His feet crunch faintly on the glassy beach below.

The violin’s strung-wire sounds resolve themselves into a tune. Leonard can hear, within the smooth, muted triple swoop of the rhythm, Federico’s words echoing indefinitely – _take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz_ ….

Leonard begins to skip – ludicrously slowly – in the dreamy waltz-time.

Federico’s rather heavy features lighten, as if touched by the first spears of dawn; and Leonard hears a distant burst of laughter. 

The other poet walks forward, flat-footed, careful; almost limping. Leonard’s waist is seized, his hand clasped; and he’s swung around strongly.

There’s a tangle of feet and ankles before the insidious, insistent beat takes them both.

Words ebb and flow in his brain, as Leonard is guided expertly around the dance hall. Obstacles appear; are vanquished; and fall back like waves on the distant shore of Cadaqués.

Heartbeats counterpoise the violin. Double-breathing, like that of bulls, dictates the music’s pace.

Hungarian lanterns swing overhead in misty webs. Leonard is carried down, hyacinth-shouldered, thighs bedewed and yielding to the flood of beauty – of soul and of ecstatic words - that is (and will forever be) Federico’s especial talent and gift.

“ _Take this Waltz!_ ” repeats Federico, “ _It’s all that there is!_ ”

The music executes a slow diminuendo. The two dancers relax, readying themselves for closure …..

… and the final resonance is snapped short beneath the smart crack of a bullet. The plywood violin blossoms instantly into gorgeous orchids of trailing orange and scarlet flame.

A brisk burst of rifle fire creates odd tattoos on the shattered air.

A voice cries out in Spanish: “ _… I put three bullets into his arse for being a queer! …_ ” - and Federico is gone.

Soft marshmallow clocks ooze slowly down the gaping walls, beyond which can now be seen a grove near Alfacar, torn by sad sunlight.

* * * *

 _It was five by all the clocks_.

* * * *

Leonard wakes. His eyelids are stuck together and his hollow cheeks wet. He adjusts his face into its habitual granite expression, and reaches for the familiar comfort of his battered old guitar.


End file.
